Adam Tavel



the truth is that I never loved
the land this dirt communion
my father’s blackened fingernails
desperate cupping blossoms
his lips babbled out of names

each day he tracks the sun
and like a blind runt loses
himself winced shivering
sore hands twitching broth
to his mouth in firelight

given to wrinkles mother
a hag a sag of rags impossible
to remember her bone-smooth
body rising from the swirl herself
a garden soft as twilight once

I stalked into sky and found
only sky nothing
ancient booming mountainous
nothing huddled behind clouds
to beg or bless or pardon

wilderness is the courage yes
to say brother let us go
see our true faces in the river
and strike until his blood
ripens my broken stone


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